Witch Hunter Trilogy Box Set

by K. S. Marsden

  As winter came around, Hunter kept his movements in the southern hemisphere. It was easier and safer than trying to find warmth and shelter – he could put no one in such danger.

  But finally, spring came again, and Hunter was drawn back to Friuli. If the modern equivalent of the Benandanti existed anywhere, it would be here. It was dangerous, but Hunter had to find them, he was out of options. He’d started at the northernmost edge of Friuli and searched each town and village for hope. This one was close to the Lago di Sauris, a large landmark that allowed Hunter to gain his bearings in his speedy method of travel.

  Hunter strode up to the nearest house and banged sharply on the wooden door. Dogs started to bark, but there was no sound of people.

  “Per favore. Please, I need help.” Hunter called out; his voice rough from disuse.

  He heard the soft pad of feet and the creak of shutters. Hunter stepped back and looked at the surrounding houses.

  “Please.” He repeated to the dark, empty street. “I’m not a witch, I just need help. I’m looking for some people. They used to live here, many years ago. They did magic, good magic. Please.”

  Hunter’s voice trailed off, he was used to the suspicion and wariness that now ruled every person’s life. It was the way of the world under the rule of the witches. If this town couldn’t help him, he’d travel to the next, and the next, persisting in his search.

  “We want no magic here, signore.” A warning voice came from behind a crack in a window shutter.

  Hunter turned in the voice’s direction. “No, I ‘m not here to harm you, and I’m not staying. But if you could help me by telling me anything, anything about the Benandanti…”

  “I’ve never heard of them; they don’t live here.” The voice replied curtly.

  Hunter frowned, it was a negative response, but at least someone was answering him - albeit through a blocked window.

  “No, they might not live anywhere now. But they were in this region four hundred years ago.”

  “Four hundred years?” The voice spluttered. “Nobody here can help you, signore. It is too long ago. Now leave us in peace.”

  Hunter called out again but got no response. He even banged on the reinforced shutters but only set the dogs off again. It had been briefly promising but turned out to be less than helpful. Oh well, next village.

  Hunter turned to leave the way he came when he suddenly stopped, seeing a pair of brown eyes peering around a crack in a door.

  “Signore.” A quiet woman’s voice came. “It is true we know nothing but try the Donili monks. They have a small monastery a few kilometres south-west of here.”

  The door clicked shut.

  “Thank you. Grazie.” Hunter said quietly to the still night air.

  He hadn’t gotten any answers - hell, he’d hardly managed to get any questions out, but this was a start, a thread to follow. Not bad, he reflected as he left the village. Even a place as small and unimportant as this was dangerous - this close to the Benandanti rumours, it was best to travel unmarked paths and camp alone and untraceable. Which meant hunkering down in the lonely forest that rose to the hills. Not a comfortable prospect, but at least the weather was mild.

  At dawn Hunter was on his feet once more, set resolutely south-west, detouring only for the most stubborn natural barriers. The woman had said a few kilometres. A few. What an ill-defined description. She could mean three kilometres, while he considered it seven, or vice versa. And did she mean precisely south-west, or bearing more to the left or right? He might walk right past the home of the Donili monks, or not walk far enough. The dismal beat of his thoughts matched his steady footsteps.

  He replayed the steps that had brought him here. He had thought of nothing but the Benandanti for months. The focus allowed him to block out the nightmare of last year; investigating every dusty book, every story and myth was preferable than remembering the death and violence that was behind him.

  The minutes seemed to drag by, and a mere hour pushing on exhausted him, but Hunter didn’t stop, the distance passed slowly but steadily. He kept a keen eye for any sign of a monastery, anything to show he was on track, but so far there had been nothing man-made, there had been no sight nor sou--

  A scream pierced the peaceful countryside. Shouts followed and worse, laughter.

  Hunter stopped. The sensible part of him warned caution, those screams could only mean trouble and he shouldn’t endanger himself. Unfortunately, he’d already set off in pursuit of the noise, self-preservation at the back of his mind.

  Drawing closer, the trees thinned to reveal a lonely little cottage. In front of the humble building a woman stood before two young children, arms held wide to shield them with her own body. The three cried and begged while a man held onto an older child, seemingly playing a tug-o-war with the boy being pulled on the other side by a laughing duo.

  “Please, no.” The man begged.

  “You know the law.” The female aggressor said with a scornful laugh. “Sacrifices must be provided.”

  “No, please, not my son. Take me instead.”

  The heartless woman shook her head smiling, finding his distress highly amusing. They all cried and begged, and some even swore and fought back; but the result was always the same, when a witch demanded a sacrifice that demand had to be met.

  Hunter had seen enough.

  “Release him.” He shouted with all the authority he once possessed.

  The two aggressors turned, unimpressed by this scruffy stranger that dared to intercede.

  “Move on.” The male warned. “This does not concern you.”

  “Release him.” Hunter repeated. “Or I will be forced to take action.”

  The crying father looked between the two witches and this unknown hero; his troubled mind slow to catch up.

  “No signore, you mustn’t, they… they will come, they will protect us.” His strange mumblings faded into a whisper and he closed his eyes briefly in a silent prayer.

  The man and his comments were ignored as the witches turned to the one individual willing to stand up against them, willing to fight even.

  Hunter felt that familiar spark in his mind that sensed magic. Indeed, the build up from the two witches was almost tangible. He frowned, his hand clasping the metal amulet at his throat, his whole body reaching instinctively for protection. It had been years since Hunter had first used the natural shield that he was equipped with, and now it slipped over him with an invisible, but comfortable weight.

  The first wave of spells hit, designed to blind and unbalance, a typical opening move. The magic distilled uselessly in the air, leaving Hunter unaffected and the witches disturbed and confused.

  Hunter sighed, soon he’d draw his gun, he’d fight to destroy these ungodly creatures. But first he needed to protect the others in case things got ugly. With a simple thought he extended the shield to protect the cowering family.

  Hunter snapped to attention, his shield was blocked, he pushed again but it felt like it had come up against a solid wall. This was unsettling, in the last two years, in the endless fights and battles his shield had been battered and weakened, but never blocked.

  The spells came in from all sides, Hunter felt the shield buckle under the sheer pressure, he was half-aware of the witch-hunters at the very edge, no longer safe as his strength failed. Soon they began to fall, no longer protected from the lethal magic…

  Hunter shook his head, determined to stay in the present. Another spell dissolved against the shield. Hunter frowned, he hated blood and death and had seen enough of both to last ten lifetimes, but he duly drew his gun and steadily fired at both witches.

  Hunter heard a feral snarl rip from one of the witches, but neither of them fell. Hunter froze - his aim was infallible, yet they weren’t hit. Even more disturbing was the expression of confusion that was mirrored in the witches’ faces. The bullets had been stopped and it was not their doing.

  Beyond the sound of his own thudding pulse Hunter became aware of
a low rumble of noise coming from the forest. He turned, automatically strengthening the shield about him. Out of the trees stepped two men, one grey-haired and wrinkled, the other younger than Hunter. Their eyes were closed in concentration and both chanted in low tones, the sound akin to a hum.

  The older man suddenly fell silent and opened his eyes, facing the two witches. With a move of his hand there was a deep rumble and a bright flash of light. Hunter heard a scream rip from the witches, and he stumbled back, unbalanced and blinded.

  It was over in a flash, Hunter felt his heart falter, then double its beat. The witches were nowhere to be seen. The father and son scrambled back to their family’s embrace.

  The two mysterious men turned to face Hunter, the old man locked his pale blue gaze onto Hunter and raised his hand… then faltered. His wrinkled brow creased further in a frown. He spoke quickly, but Hunter failed to follow his words, they were an Italian dialect he’d never heard before.

  “Wh-what? I’m sorry, I don’t understand.” He stuttered breathlessly, unable to find his usual manners in this confusion.

  The younger man looked at him with surprise. “Inglese.” He said with some amazement, throwing a meaningful look to the elder.

  “English? He says, ‘you are not a witch’.” The young man explained in broken English, the words flavoured with accent, while he gazed curiously at Hunter.

  Hunter wavered beneath those bright blue eyes. “No… I mean, yes, I’m English. But I’m not a witch.”

  The older man whispered something to the young one, who nodded seriously.

  “But you are using magic.” He insisted, his eyes drifting along Hunter’s aura, as though physically seeing the shield.

  “Oh.” Hunter turned his attention to his shield, reluctantly letting it drop. He was far from trusting these strangers, but felt he needed to show faith if he were to get answers. “That’s not magic, it’s something… different. I’m sorry, but who are you?”

  “I am Marcus.” The young man replied readily; a hand placed on his chest. “And my friend is Maurizio, we are Donili. And you?”

  “Donili?” Hunter jumped at the word. “Of the Donili monks? But I came this way looking for you.”

  Marcus frowned, and relayed this to the older Maurizio, then turned back to Hunter. “And your name?” He insisted.

  “Hunter Astley, a 7th gen witch-hunter with the British Malleus Maleficarum Council.” Hunter replied.

  Marcus hesitated at this stream of information, then repeated it to Maurizio. Hunter waited impatiently as they exchanged comments in that incomprehensible Italian, his nerves still sparking at every slight sound or movement.

  “You will come with us, Signor Astley? Our council will have many questions. You have many questions also?” Marcus’ voice rose, but Hunter couldn’t tell whether in query or anticipation.

  “Yes. Yes, of course.” Hunter replied immediately, feeling truly hopeful for the first time in three months.

  Maurizio, pleased with the outcome of this laboured conversation, turned to the family. The old man quickly exchanged words with the mother and father, and less quickly stood smiling as he accepted their thanks and blessings.

  Marcus smiled indulgently, then hurried the older man along. They set off into the forest, trudging over the rugged terrain. Hunter, used to his above average stamina and physical ability, was surprised by Marcus, and especially the older Maurizio, who paced along swiftly and untiring. Hunter came up with mental excuses, that he was wearied from being on the run for so long, that he was further tired by the brief fight with the witches - but the truth was it was embarrassing that his breathing grew heavier and he felt sweat run down his face and neck.

  Hunter stopped to take a much-needed drink from his old water bottle. He coughed and spat, feeling guiltily unlike a gentleman.

  “How much further is it?” He asked his travelling companions, not quite sure what ‘it’ was. He took the opportunity to take a few deep breaths and kept his voice strong at least.

  “Not far. One kilometre, no more than two.” Marcus replied, patiently waiting for his English guest. He hesitated, obviously taking in Hunter’s sweaty appearance and strained eyes.

  Marcus turned and quickly fell into conversation with Maurizio. Hunter didn’t even try to follow the flow of words, but he gathered from the stress in Marcus’ voice that the younger man was trying to persuade the older.

  Eventually Maurizio shrugged non-committedly and Marcus turned back to Hunter with a smile.

  “We go the fast way - this is how we travel. Hold my arm. Trust me.” Marcus said, holding out his hand invitingly, but an almost mischievous look in his eye.

  Warily Hunter raised his hand. As soon as he touched the young man’s forearm the world went black and Hunter felt a familiar shift.

  Chapter Two

  In no time at all, the world returned, and Hunter saw an array of stone and brick buildings and heard the small crowd of people that turned to gaze calmly at their sudden appearance. Hunter, so suspicious and tense himself, noticed that people looked at him with only a vague curiosity before moving on, as though their appearance were a common thing.

  Next to Hunter, Marcus turned with an expectant look.

  “Do you want to sit? It is disorie- dees… disorientante for new people.” He said, but his smile faltered as he saw Hunter show no sign of distress from this almost magical form of transport.

  “No, I’m fine thank you. Where are we?” Hunter asked, brushing aside the unnecessary concern and gazing about the settlement. The buildings were strong and sturdy and defied the forest which turned the horizon green in every direction. The land sloped gently downhill in front of him and Hunter could see the shimmer of a river where the houses gave way, and further the land rose again to the next sunlit hill. “Are we still in Friuli?”

  “Yes.” Marcus answered, still eyeing Hunter warily. “This is the village of Donili. Come, you must meet our Abate. He is at the abbazia.”

  Marcus led back up the hill towards a long, low stone building that looked down on the village like a guardian. Marcus glanced again at Hunter. “You sure you ok? Most people panico after their first travel.”

  “It wasn’t my first time.” Hunter said carefully, thinking this was enough honesty. There was no need to. He didn’t know how much he could trust Marcus and decided that the less he revealed about himself the better.

  Hunter ignored the quizzical look from his young companion, and kept his eyes trained on the path, the last thing he wanted was to trip, fall, and look a prat. At one point, Hunter finally noticed the absence of Maurizio. But they had just reached the doors and he had no time to give the old man any further thought. Marcus rapped on the wooden doors and they were pulled open from the inside by a monk who nodded them through.

  They stepped into a large courtyard. Hunter was struck by the simple beauty of the place; the sun warmed the soft brown stone, and along each side of the courtyard, shadowed walkways were marked out with pillars.

  Hunter heard the pad of soft shoes across the stone quad. He turned to see another monk approach them, the man looked young and strong, and he greeted them both with quiet confidence.

  “Welcome to the Abbazia di Donili, Signor Astley. My name is Biagio, if you come with me, I shall show you to the padre.”

  Hunter was briefly taken aback by his fluent, yet accented English and could only nod in reply, before finally coughing out a thank you.

  Biagio smiled indulgently, then bowed briefly to Marcus before turning and walking away.

  Hunter hesitated, not sure if he were meant to follow. He glanced at Marcus, somehow trusting this Donili monk that he met first.

  Marcus tried an encouraging smile. “Perhaps I see you later, signore.” The young man bowed and backed away.

  Hunter frowned, he’d been deprived of company for so long, it was tempting to latch onto the first friendly face he saw. He had to remind himself that, until he had answers and his life had gained some as
pect of sense again, he should remain wary and taciturn; there would be time for friendships later, if there were time at all.

  Hunter gripped the straps of his rucksack and stumbled along behind Biagio, looking like any other weary traveller behind the quiet, composed monk.

  Biagio led indoors and down a narrow stone corridor. He opened the last door and invited Hunter in.

  Hunter didn’t know what to expect, he’d been so preoccupied with the finding of a link to the Benandanti that his mind hadn’t considered any further.

  The room was cosy, with an upholstered bench and several soft chairs. There was a grand fireplace, that was yet unlit, and the walls were lined with shelves of books. The atmosphere of the room reminded Hunter of his own private study or drawing room at home.

  There were three men sitting in the room, all were grey-haired and bore signs of age. They were in quiet conversation, but broke off at Hunter’s arrival, they looked in his direction and Hunter could see that age had not dulled those sharp, shining eyes that pierced him curiously.

  Next to him, Biagio made an introduction in that bizarre dialect.

  One of the monks rose from their seat and replied, his gaze flitting between Hunter and Biagio the translator.

  “The Abate welcomes you, Hunter Astley. Please be seated, you must have many questions. And after Maurizio’s account of your meeting, we too have questions.” Biagio relayed eloquently, a slight air of smugness over his own fluency.

  But Hunter paid him little attention, he glanced again at the two seated monks and realised that one of them was Maurizio. So, this was where the old man had disappeared to - coming to forewarn the boss while Hunter toiled with Marcus.

  Ever since he had found out about his abilities, Hunter had steadily gained more questions and no answers. But right now, he was speechless. In the awkwardness of his silence, he acted upon the invitation to sit down, sinking into one of the heavenly comfortable chairs.